The Garden of Stones

by Mark T. Barnes

  Indris looked about, surprised to find he stood in the open doorway of the courtyard, where he had walked on unwilling feet. He looked up to see the wind-skiff where it hovered uncertainly, the Tempest Wheels growling angrily in protest.

  Belamandris jumped lithely over the rail. He walked toward Indris, his hand on the hilt of his amenesqa. Indris circled to the side, and the two men spiraled toward each other, inexorably drawn.

  It was not Belamandris Indris wanted to face. Corajidin was the one the Jahirojin demanded. Yet how could he face either, then Mari? The two warriors stopped meters from each other, feet set shoulder width apart, bodies oblique.

  “I underestimated you last time,” Belamandris said with an easy smile. “I tend not to make the same mistake twice.”

  “You already have, by coming out to meet me.” Indris nodded to the wind-skiff. He spared a glance to where Corajidin had dragged himself to the rail. The old man looked wretched, his expression slack. “You should’ve run the moment you set eyes on me.”

  “Do we dance then, you and I?”

  “What about Mari?” Indris asked. “One of us will die, and the other will lose her. I don’t now have, nor have I ever had, a quarrel with you, Widowmaker.”

  “You’d allow me to take my father to safety?” Belamandris’s voice was colored with his surprise.

  “On any other day, no,” Indris said honestly. He looked around at the courtyard. Flames licked from most windows, and smoke obscured almost everything. In the time it would take to fight Belamandris, the fire might well spread to other buildings. There were more lives at stake here. The force of the Jahirojin threatened to assume control of him. “But if I have to kill a man, I want it to be my choice. Besides, you know as well as I your father’s not long for the world. A good son would see to it his father found peace.”

  “You’re unexpected, Näsarat fa Amonindris.” The Widowmaker almost smiled. “Though we’ll never be friends, I’ll remember your kindness.”

  Belamandris turned toward the wind-skiff. There came a sound, muffled by the inferno. Belamandris paused. Stepped. Turned back toward Indris, his expression puzzled. Indris saw the fletching of the light crossbow bolt that pierced Belamandris’s throat. The Widowmaker reached up as he fell, a gurgle in this throat.

  “A son for a son, Corajidin!” came Thufan’s graveled cry, the pistol-crossbow held tightly in his fist as he leaned over the rail of the wind-skiff. “If Dragon-Eye won’t do it, I will!”

  Mari reeled from the force of the armored fist across her jaw. It felt as if her teeth had come loose. She collided with the wall, the pain of the impact barely registering. Her body had been so overcome by agony she barely noticed the new insults against her flesh.

  The wall by her head exploded with shards of stone as a kucheti smashed into it. She threw herself back. Already she had broken two swords, though the ancient relic of her namesake remained whole. The blade in her right hand was sheared off almost halfway.

  Mari stabbed the jagged half sword into the nearby Iphyri’s face. Broken or not, the blade could still kill.

  Corpses of a score and more Iphyri lay below her on the stairs. With each kill she retreated up the stairs. There seemed to be no end to the brutish horse-men. Though her ears were filled with the roar of blood in her head and the rasp of her breath, still she could hear the Iphyri’s pealing whickers from below. It sounded a little like the insane laughter of wheezing old men.

  She wobbled on her feet. One of her knees trembled, not the one that bled from a sword wound, the other one. The one in the leg with the deep gash on her shin. The one with broken bones in her foot. Her vision was blurred. Thankfully the Iphyri were large targets.

  Another of the horse-men barreled up the stairs. Mari had no energy for artistry. She swung her mostly blunt sword, spiraled energy from her ankles, knees, thighs, and hips. Channeled it through her back, chest, forearms, and hands. The blade bit into the Iphyri’s chin. It continued upward, to shear through muzzle and brain. She staggered as the Iphyri fell at her feet. The Iphyri behind it lashed out with a broad hoof. It took Mari in the chest, sent her reeling. She lashed out as she landed flat on her back, winded. Her blade cut the throat of the horse-man, who fell squealing. Through her faded vision, the next Iphyri was little more than a dark blur against the pallor of the sky.

  “No!” Corajidin shrieked.

  He saw the Anlūki surge toward Thufan. The man had chosen his position well, for he already stood over Corajidin’s supine body.

  “We’ll join each other in death!” Thufan howled.

  Thufan raised his hook high, then brought it down in a vicious strike. Corajidin felt as if he had been hit in the chest with a hammer.

  Color faded from the world. The light seemed harsh, too white, though there was no warmth. Shadows yawned blackly, beckoning him to fall into their dark embrace. He could not breathe. His hands flew to his chest. There was blood everywhere. His vision swam. Clouds of black smoke, three shades of gray flame, the white white white of sunlight where it reflected from the jagged edges of broken windows.

  Corajidin’s head lolled to one side as the Anlūki closed on Thufan. Corajidin could hear the grate of his laugh, which turned to high-pitched shrieks as the Anlūki slaughtered him. Blood sprayed everywhere. Other Anlūki leaped the rails, their shouts distant.

  He lay on his back; the broad vault of the sky seemed almost close enough to touch. Voices shouted all around him, though the words made no sense. He looked about, though all was blurred patches of light and dark. His mind wandered. He thought for a moment of—

  Indris ignored the Anlūki who came to fetch their master’s body. Let them take Belamandris away, to be buried with the honors he deserved.

  Sword in hand, Indris strode to the center of the courtyard. Fountains burbled in the middle of wide pools. A covered well stood amid potted weeping fig trees. Changeling’s song managed to shield Indris from the imperative of the Jahirojin. He cast his senses around the burning villa. Most of it was a maelstrom of smoke and flame. The fire was spreading to the other villas and other homes that surrounded it.

  A nearby wall groaned, then fell toward him. Flame and smoke billowed around him. Indris leaped away. Debris knocked him from his feet, forced him to roll over scalding bricks and mortar that burned his skin.

  He climbed to his feet and opened himself to the ahmsah.

  Intent formed a thought, which became numbers, ordered into parallel and serial formulae. One by one, faster than the blink of an eye, he sorted, assessed, discarded options. With harsh chopping motions of his hand, he severed the connection between the burning sections of the building and those that were untouched. Rubble cascaded down amid clouds of dust and fine debris, which rolled about his feet. Slivers of stone ricocheted to slice open his cheek and brow.

  Indris felt himself weaken. He had taxed himself too much today. Even with Changeling’s help, his Disentropic Stain felt like sunburn on his skin. In his mind’s eye, he saw the blistering on his soul. He slid to his knees, hands clenched around Changeling’s hilt. She trembled at his touch. Light sparked from her blade, shadows bloomed deep in the metal. Indris hissed through clenched teeth as he forced his battered brain to think through the prattle of the Jahirojin.

  Calculations flickered across his mind. The numbers dismayed him, gave him answers he did not want. He rephrased the problem in his mind, sought the desired outcome a different way. A vortex started to form over the burning villa. Slowly at first, little more than a mere shifting of smoke-filled air, it sluggishly turned. With each passing moment it gained speed, a funnel pointed upward into the broad vault of the firmament. His face felt swollen. Blood pulsed in his brain. Black spots appeared in his vision as he used the vortex to suck the air from the burning buildings.

  He looked upward at a spinning funnel of orange, red, and yellow. The flames spiraled upward, a solid mass of heat, light, and color. Yet flames still capered on the rooftops and long window ledges. His vision
dimmed.

  It was only when the last of the flames guttered out that he lost concentration. The air rolled back with a boom. Indris felt the impact of the courtyard on his head as he was thrown face-first onto the flagstones.

  Mari opened her eyes wide as the Iphyri lifted its kucheti. She wanted to see the blow that killed her.

  There was a flash of blue and gold past her eyes. Then another. Then more until all she could see were the flickered blurs of shapes that bounded over her. Sound came as if she were at the bottom of a well. Grunts. Squeals. The racket of metal on metal. Roars.

  Then she was being lifted in powerful arms. She could feel herself float away as her eyes finally closed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “The wrongs that blinded soul and pride, you needs must forgive and forget. In death we find no final right, no way for us to ease regret. No way to catch the tears of pain, when sons and daughters rest in earth. There is no way in which we gain our peace of mind, or joy, or mirth.”—from the ballad “Red Morning,” by the war-chanter Shar-fer-rayn, 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Day 335 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Femensetri stood on a balcony in the Hai-Ardin where it overlooked Amnon. The sky was filled with kites that shone like paper lanterns. They drifted on the sea breeze, each one painted with the messages of loved ones to the Ancestors, family, and friends who had journeyed before them to the Well of Souls. Her eyes were luminous, beautiful.

  “Remembering those who’ve gone before?” Indris asked as he and Shar approached, Ekko and Hayden in their wake. Ekko loomed large in the armor and clothes of a jombe. He had resigned his commission with the Lion Guard. It was his preference to travel with Indris, now that he had experienced some of the perils he had thought were little more than myth.

  “There are too many to remember,” she mused. She looked over the small group with a smile. “When you live as long as I have, some of the names get forgotten. Don’t let the poets fool you. It happens.”

  “I saw Nazarafine speaking with Siamak earlier.” Indris came to stand beside his old teacher. “Is there anything we need to worry about?”

  “Isn’t there always something to worry about?” Shar chuckled.

  “We appear to be safe, for the time being,” Femensetri said with a sour tone. “Nazarafine is sponsoring Siamak for the Family Bey to be restored to the status of a Great House. It’s been centuries since the Bey have been rahns. He deserves it and Far-ad-din would be pleased, I think.”

  “It’s been ten days. What news from our neighbors?” Indris asked.

  “High Palatine Navaar professes friendship for now. As for the Iron League? They no doubt have spies, same as we have ours. I sent word to our own embassies in the Iron League countries, assuring them everything was under control.”

  “I imagine they might find that hard to chew,” Hayden observed. “There ain’t a whole lot of trust there to begin with.”

  “We’re nowhere near out of the woods yet,” Femensetri said darkly. “Corajidin is missing and still capable of causing us grief. We’ve two new and inexperienced rahns among the ranks in Roshana and Vahineh, who may not even survive. You never told me what happened with Corajidin, boy.”

  “How fares Vahineh?” Indris replied.

  Femensetri scowled. “Her personality was splintered by the Awakening. It’s difficult to understand who she is at any given moment. She may recover, but the woman was never intended to carry this burden. We could use Far-ad-din.”

  “Far-ad-din is a good man, Femensetri.” Indris looked out across the night-lit haze of Amnon. “But he’s right. His own peers turned against him far too easily. Shame, he’d have made a good Asrahn.”

  “Never happen.” Femensetri sounded sad. “Neither Shrīan nor the Iron League are ready for a Seethe to govern a nation. At least he won’t bring the Seethe down on us in retribution. Still fixing on this journey of yours?”

  “To Avānweh?” Indris asked. “Yes. Sassomon-Omen needs a new body. Besides, the New Year’s Festival in Avānweh will be something. It’ll be interesting to see what happens at the Assembly of Peers, too. With Vashne gone and Corajidin in the wind, I’d not be surprised to see a lot of the Imperialist exiles trying to reclaim their places in society. As Shar said, there’s always something to worry about.”

  “So, are you returning to the Order?” Femensetri hawked and spat.

  “I think you’re going giddy with the moment,” Indris said drily. “I’ll stay my own man.”

  “You did well, boy.” Femensetri rested her hands on Indris’s shoulders. “Though you should’ve killed Corajidin when you—”

  “Wait a—”

  “Let me finish!” She placed her hand over his mouth. “Letting him go will cause problems. He still presents a danger to us all. Yet your handling of the Ariskander issue, flying a galley across the Rōmarq, and capturing the Destiny Engine were masterfully done. You sure you’ll not come back to the Sēq? You could be the youngest master—”

  “Thank you for your confidence, but no.” Indris bowed his head. There was much Femensetri did not know, could never know, about what Indris was capable of. “I can do real good as I am.”

  Femensetri smiled. “Perhaps you are my greatest pupil.” She leaned forward and took him in her arms. Indris was surprised by the unexpected display of affection. When she spoke next, it was in a whisper for him alone. “Besides, I’ll always know where to find you, should I need you.”

  “About my mother.” Indris leaned back from his former teacher. Something Ariskander had said still echoed in his mind. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “There’s much I’ve not told you,” the Stormbringer admitted. “Some, because you don’t need to know. Some, because you need to find out for yourself.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Ah.” She sighed. “The rest I made a promise to your mother not to say.”

  Indris walked up the gentle slope of Zephyr Hill. Hundreds of people knelt in the grass, their faces lit sepia by the flames in each alabaster and crystal flower on its plinth in the Garden of Stones. Some turned to look at him, a solitary wanderer in his threadbare over-robe, his sword sheathed across his back. The people of Amnon had become used to warriors in their midst. There were scowls as he passed, gestures to ward off evil. A few spat into the grass, to curse him and his violent ways as he passed them by. People had lost those they loved. He did not begrudge them their anger.

  He crested the hill, then continued down the narrow stone path toward the Lotus House. He stopped when he reached the door. It was open, it was always open, yet as always his feet betrayed him. Truth was he had stood before the door many times, his hand resting on the pendant-shaped brass handles. He had listened, more times than he could count, to the wind chimes, white plaited leather stitched with beads of yellow glazed clay in the shape of bees that swung in the breeze. Each time he had walked away.

  “I’ll come with you, if you like,” Shar murmured from behind him.

  Indris looked over his shoulder at his dearest friend. He had asked so much of her over the years. She had never once complained or refused him. Though it meant risking her own life, Shar-fer-rayn had been at his side when there was no logical reason for her to be. A reflexive response started to shape his lips. Before the words could escape, never to be recalled, he closed his mouth.

  “I’d like that,” Indris said. “Thank you.”

  Shar took him by the hand, though it was Indris who took the first, tentative step inside.

  Together they followed the spiral of the Memorial Wall, with its myriad names. There was only one he had eyes for: Anj-el-din. Like all the names on the wall, it was set with tiny slivers of ilhen, to shine in beams of pale blue-white light like a star.

  “I hadn’t thought it would be so…” Indris’s eyes burned. There was an itch in the back of his nose and an ache in his chest he felt only when he was alone, when memory got the better of him.
He squeezed Shar’s hand. “You know, I’ve never said good-bye to her,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps it’s time you did,” she said gently. She took his face in both her hands; her beautiful jewel eyes stared into his. “You carry such a burden of grief for the lives you could never save, as well as the guilt for being alive when they’re not. You’re murdering yourself from the inside out, and I hate to see you do it. You’re the very best of men, Näsarat fa Amonindris, if only you’d see it.”

  Indris quoted a poem he had written many years ago, yet never had the resolve to finish.

  We tried to lead the lives we chose,

  yet knew our dreams weren’t coming true.

  I drowned in regrets the day you left,

  obsessed with all things meaningless.

  I bowed before the emptiness,

  and empty-souled went penniless,

  before all the shallow dreams I thought were me.

  “I love her so much, Shar,” he murmured. “I think I always will. When we escaped and she was gone, some part of me knew she was…I denied it at first. I dragged you everywhere to search for her. But now, with Mari—”

  “Don’t.” She hushed him. “Haven’t you learned anything from your time with the Seethe? Guilt and melancholy are the poison of the spirit.”

  “Then I pleaded to the Ancestors,” he whispered. “Promised them anything if I could take Anj’s place in death…”

  “I was with you.” She held him close. “Yet yours isn’t the only love to end before its time.”

  “So much has happened.” He reached out to touch the glowing name with tender hands.

  “Don’t tell me, Indris.” Shar backed away quietly. “Tell her.”

  Indris sagged. He turned around to sit with his back to the obelisk. Softly batting the back of his head against it, he struggled to form his thoughts into words from those places that had been locked for far too long.